


The Deduction Game

by makokitten



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock on Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:14:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tony Stark is sent to recruit a fellow genius, he doesn't expect to meet a dead man.  He also doesn't expect that dead man to be high, but maybe he shouldn't have been surprised.  (Spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deduction Game

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Tumblr. Thanks to h3rring for being an amazing beta, as always.

* * *

            Tony Stark isn’t a recruiter.  He’s a motivator, sure, and a salesman, and he’s always won himself friends, one way or another, but going around one-on-one to draw people to his causes has always been someone else’s job.  So, understandably, he was almost offended when Nick Fury called him up and said he wanted Tony to persuade another brilliant mind to join the S.H.I.E.L.D. initiative.  Tony protested that he was no one’s errand boy, but Fury only said, “Trust me, you’ll want to meet this one.”

            After hearing that, Tony assumes he’s going to be delivering the S.H.I.E.L.D. sales pitch to someone at least marginally interesting.  Turns out he’s supposed to charm a guy named Sigerson into joining up.  Well, if Fury wants _him_ to do it, not someone uptight like Steve Rogers or one of the agents, Sigerson must be Tony’s kind of guy.  He has his people get in touch with Sigerson’s people—person, some woman he’s staying with in Manhattan—and arranges a meeting at a nightclub.  If he’s going to do this, he might as well make it not a chore. 

            Tony brings Pepper along because she’s better at staying on topic than he is, because if he needs to have Sigerson sign anything she’ll see that it’s signed, and because they don’t have enough opportunities to go on dates as it is.

            “You keep saying it’s a date,” she says during the limo ride over.  “It’s not a date, it’s a business meeting.”

            “It’s business and a date,” Tony replies.  “It’s a business-date.  No, it’s just business, I’m just saying that to make you feel more comfortable.”

            She cocks her head to the side.  “To make _me_ feel comfortable?”

            “Well, you dressed for a date.”

            “I dressed for a date because you said it was a date!”

            “See, you’re always looking for ways to bring it back to me.”  He grins at her before she can protest again, though.  He couldn’t honestly care less about what Pepper wears, but he likes it when she lets her hair down a little.  She’s done something to it to make it wavy tonight.  It compliments her blush—the makeup, and the natural blush which still creeps onto her cheeks sometimes when she smiles.  He clears his throat.  “Look, Sigerson will take fifteen minutes, tops, and then you and I can have the entire rest of the evening to ourselves.  So it’s a business-date.  I like that.  We’re going to make that catch on, too, just watch.” 

            “Tony.”

            “Do you think I can patent it, or is it too late for that?” 

            “ _Tony_.”

            Their arrival at the nightclub inspires a flurry of snapping cell phone cameras.  Tony smiles and waves; Pepper smiles, too, but not as comfortably.  She’s not really a club person, Pepper Potts.  If she had her way, they’d be sitting on the couch at home sharing a blanket and watching _Casablanca_.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that sort of date, but Tony has other plans for tonight.  He puts an arm around her, tells their limo to be back in a few hours, and guides her inside.

            “We’re going to dance now,” he tells her.

            “I thought we were looking for Sigerson.”

            “We can look for Sigerson and dance at the same time.” 

            “Tony—I don’t think you’re taking this seriously.”

            “You sound surprised.”

            Pepper sighs.  “At least tell me what I’m looking for.  I don’t know what he looks like.” 

            Tony pauses for a moment to remember what Fury told him.  He hadn’t had any decent photographs on hand, which didn’t seem out of the ordinary until just now.  “Six feet tall, red hair, glasses.  Apparently.”

            “Is that him?”

            Tony looks.  Pepper’s pointing at a man sitting alone at a table.  Red hair, glasses, lanky.  Fits the description.  She spotted him before Tony had even gotten her close to the dance floor.  “It might be—”

            But then Tony looks again, really _looks_.  And then he understands why Nick Fury hadn’t had any decent pictures on file.  “Yes,” he says.  “Yes, that is definitely, definitely him.  You—”  He kisses her on the cheek.  “—are brilliant, and this meeting just got a lot more interesting.  Come on.”

            He takes her wrist and heads over to the table, pushing through the crowd and brushing off anyone else who tries to talk to him.  Pepper has no choice but to follow, bewildered. 

            Sigerson, who is definitely not actually named Sigerson, doesn’t seem to notice their approach.  He’s staring out into empty air, oblivious to anything else going on around him, his eyes following invisible shapes and patterns in the air.  Tony clears his throat and taps the table, and that’s when “Sigerson” turns his head toward them.  It takes his eyes a second or two to catch up.  Tony doesn’t miss it.  “Mr. Stark,” says Sigerson, who isn’t really Sigerson.  He is British, though.  That much is clear.

            “Hi.”  Tony reaches forward to shake fake-Sigerson’s hand.  “Call me Tony.  This is Pepper.”  Without waiting for an invitation, he takes a seat, and motions for Pepper to do the same.  “Now, the real question is, what should we call _you_?”

            Pepper blinks.  “His name is Jeremy Sigerson,” she says slowly, as if Tony’s forgotten.  In all fairness, he might have, but he hasn’t this time.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Sigerson, he’s a little eccentric—”

            “Eccentric, maybe, but not usually wrong.”  The other man has nothing to say to that.  Tony studies his face, with the high, sharp cheekbones and serious eyebrows.  Of the two of them, “Sigerson” is the one dressed like an eccentric: everything he wears is a size too large for him.  Probably weight loss from all of the running around he’s been doing.  “I’m a big fan, actually,” he says, leaning back in his chair.  “But you know what I’m not a big fan of?  Being lied to.”  Pause.  “You could have made up for it by wearing the hat.” 

            Fake-Sigerson doesn’t miss a beat—well, he misses half a beat, due to whatever he imbibed before Tony got to him.  “Hat?”

            “The deerstalker,” Tony replies.  “You know, the Sherlock Holmes hat?” 

            “Sherlock Holmes is dead.” 

            Tony waves him off.  “No one stays _dead_ these days,” he says.  “Dead is out.  I’d know.  I’m a superhero.”

            “Hah.  Would you have me become a superhero, too?”  Sherlock appraises him.  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” 

            “Well, no.  Can’t have too many genius superheroes running around.  But—”

            “This is Sherlock Holmes?” Pepper asks, catching up.  “The fake detective who jumped off a roof?” 

            “Yes.  And no.  He’s a very _real_ detective.”

            Pepper looks at Tony like he’s crazy.  Which, in her defense, he often is.  “But he _died_.”

            “No, he jumped off a roof.  That’s very different from dying.”

            “But—”

            Tony holds up a hand to stop her, distracted by what he’s hearing—with what he’s _not_ hearing.  He’d expected Sherlock to cut in with a wry interjection by now, or at least be somewhat impressed with being unmasked, but the recently deceased detective is looking out past Pepper’s left ear again.  “Hey,” Tony says, snapping his fingers.  “Eyes over here.”  Sherlock blinks, but returns to the conversation, just in time for Tony to say, “I’d offer you a drink, but I think you started partying before we even got here.”

            “I would hardly call this partying.” 

            Tony shrugs and leans forward again.  “See, the real mystery here, Pepper, is how Sherlock Holmes managed to find his way to New York in a flimsy disguise while on hard drugs.” 

            Sherlock raises an eyebrow.  “Best way to hide is in plain sight, ‘Iron Man.’” 

            “True, that’s true.  Did you know I had a thing for redheads, or is this—”  He points up at Sherlock’s dyed hair.  “—just a coincidence?  No, I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he adds quickly, stealing a glance at Pepper.  “I don’t want to upset her, she’s my designated driver.  Er, driver-getter.  Pepper, actually, could you call us a car?  I don’t think our friend Sherlock is up for this conversation.”

            Pepper, who’s also noticed Sherlock’s sluggishness, glances from Sherlock to Tony and asks, “Should we take him to the hospital?  If he’s been—”

            “No, no, I don’t think he’d want that.  Too much paperwork.  We’ll just take him home, set him up in a guest bedroom.  Somewhere we can make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit or get himself kidnapped.”

            Frowning, Pepper does as he asks.  She stands and leaves the club to place the call somewhere more quiet.  As soon as she’s gone, Sherlock moves his chair a little closer to Tony’s.  “You sent her away rather quickly.”

            “I thought it’d be best if we got you out of this club as soon as possible,” Tony says as he flags down a waitress.  “You never know who might be an assassin.  Hi, I’d like a Scotch.  Could you make it to go?  Thanks, appreciate it.”

            The waitress looks at him like he’s from Mars, but realizes who he is and scurries off.  Sherlock says, “That’s not what I meant.”

            “Oh, am I in for a deduction now?” Tony crosses his left leg over his right and drums his fingers on his knee.  “All right, this should be fun.  Shoot.” 

            “You’re bisexual.”

            When Tony realizes Sherlock isn’t going to say anything else, he raises an eyebrow.  “What, that’s it?  You’re not going to tell me how you got there?  Like, you’re not going to say my shoes are so flamboyant they couldn’t possibly belong to a straight man?  Or is it the amount of product in my hair?  Because to be honest, I was doing lab work earlier so some of that might be motor oil.  It’s a pain to get out of hair.  Oh, great,” he says to the waitress, who returns with his drink in record time.  She didn’t make it to go. 

            Sherlock shifts in his seat.  “It’s obvious.”

            “Obvious to me, sure.  But it’s not like I go around advertising that I’m attracted to men.  Bad for business.”  Tony notices just how close Sherlock has shifted, and leans away.  “And… I’m a bisexual man in a committed relationship, so—” 

            “You sent your girlfriend outside.” 

            “Yeah, about that.  Hold on a second.”  Tony turns away from Sherlock and drains his Scotch.  A little alcohol goes a long way when dealing with drugged, randy geniuses.  Tony would know.  He considers himself an expert on drugged, randy geniuses.  “Right.”  He turns back to Sherlock.  “Is it my turn to make a deduction yet?  I deduce the rumors of your asexuality were grossly overrated.  Then again, maybe it’s my irresistible charm.”

            “This isn’t about sexuality,” Sherlock says, laying a friendly hand on Tony’s thigh.  He has really long fingers, even if they’re as bony as the rest of him.  Angular redhead.  Definitely his type.  “It’s about feeling good.”

            “Well, I feel fine, thanks for asking,” Tony says, plucking Sherlock’s hand off of him.  “And even if I wasn’t taken, you’re on—whatever you’re on.  And see, that’s off-putting.  I like my partners self-aware.  Consent’s a bit of a kink for me.”

            Sherlock sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck.  All of his movements are very deliberate, which reveals just how much he’s struggling with fine motor control.  “Just need a distraction,” he murmurs.

            “I can tell you from experience that the holographic displays in my lab are even better on drugs.” 

            “Do you know what else is better on drugs?” Sherlock asks.  “Sex.”

            “You know, that’s surprisingly untrue.”  Tony considers.  “Well, it is true sometimes.  Depends.”

            “Depends on what you’re taking.”

            “Depends on who you’re _with_ ,” Tony says, thinking of Pepper, who’s standing outside waiting for the car to drive up, probably grateful to be away from the noise.  They haven’t gotten to sleep together as much as they’d like.  Tony’s always gets called away.  She’s great, though.  And each time’s better than the last.  No, _Tony_ can’t afford to zone out in this conversation.  Back to the moral of the story.  “And that’s something I never thought I’d say in my life, so I must be telling the truth.” 

            Sherlock withdraws, sitting properly in his seat, and looks back out into empty space. 

            Well, Tony’s going to have a hell of a time figuring out what to tell Fury about how the meeting went.  “Hey,” he says uneasily.  “Look, it’s not that I don’t think you’re attractive.”

            No response.

            Tony holds his empty glass up to the light to see if there are any stray drops of Scotch left, but there aren’t.  He sets his glass on the table again.  “So, is it my turn to make a deduction again?  I think you wasted yours on the whole ‘sex is better on drugs’ thing.”

            When Sherlock still doesn’t reply, Tony says, “All right, then I’ll tell you what’s going on.  You’ve been officially dead for, what, nine months?  You’ve been so busy running around and being brilliant that you haven’t had time to stop for breath.  You barely remember what you’re doing with yourself.  Whoever you’re staying with now, and I have a hunch, but—”  Sherlock looks at him then.  “— _but_ it doesn’t matter, except that she’s keeping a close eye on you, so tonight’s the first chance you’ve had to indulge your drug habit.  Plus, you miss that blogger, what’s his name, Joe, James—” 

            “John,” Sherlock says softly.

            “John, right.  You miss John and you’re tired and people expect things of you so you’re turning to drugs and mindless sex to fill the void.  How’d I do?”

            Sherlock smiles in that sad, self-deprecating way.  “Why aren’t you a detective?”

            Tony smiles back at him with closed lips.  “I’m already Iron Man.  That’s sort of like being a detective, but with more explosions.”

            “You’d be surprised,” Sherlock says.  “Plenty of explosions involved in being a detective.”  He pushes himself out of his chair.  “I should go.”

            “Nope,” says Tony, catching him by the arm.  “What you should do is come home with Pepper and me so you can sleep off whatever you’ve taken without one of your enemies putting a knife through your back.  In fact—that’s my phone.  Car’s here.  Come on.”

            He stands up, keeping a steady grip on Sherlock’s arm, and begins to pull him toward the door.  Sherlock follows, seeming bewildered at how fast the club is passing them by.  It’ll wear off, Tony knows, given some time.  Time’s what Sherlock needs right now.  Time and someone to ground him.

            Pepper is standing by the car, along with Tony’s chauffer.  Something a little less obtrusive than a limo this time.  That’s good.  Tony hands Sherlock over to the chauffer with a, “Help my friend with the seatbelt, all right?”

            “So how did the sales pitch go?” Pepper asks, her voice a little clipped.

            “Yeah, didn’t happen.”  Tony scratches behind his ear, then jerks his thumb at the car.  “Junkie here was trying for a _ménage a trois_.”

            “Ha,” says Pepper.

            “That’s what I told him.”  Pepper sounds upset.  Well, Tony did send her outside to wait for the car.  He has to think about how those things sound before he says them.  Gently, he takes her hands.  She turns her head away.  “Hey, sorry I didn’t make our business-date happen.  Unforeseen complications.” 

            “They’re usually unforeseen,” she says.

            “Well, they’re usually saving the world,” he says, and then, going out on a limb, he adds, “I _am_ sorry.”

            She’s taller than him in her heels, so when she looks back at him, she’s looking down.  Weirdly, he doesn’t mind that.  It’s not a huge height difference, even so.  He barely has to lean up when he goes in to kiss her. 

            It’s a long kiss.  She clearly expected it to be shorter, so her reaction is delayed, but she puts her hands on his shoulders soon enough, and kisses back hard.  When they separate, Tony inhales deeply.  Pepper doesn’t wear perfume; she smells like coconut shampoo. 

            “What was—why,” she asks, almost sheepishly.  A couple of bystanders hurry to put their cell phones in their pockets. 

            “I know where he’s coming from,” Tony says, inclining his head toward the car.  “No, that was too sappy.”

            “No,” Pepper replies, her voice so soft he can barely hear it over the music pumping out of the club.  “No, it… no.”

            “Yeah, you’re right.”  He squeezes her hands.  “Let’s go.”


End file.
